Page 5 of Let it Crackle (Playing with Fire #4)

Maya

I can’t concentrate. Not for a single second.

The library is quiet—too quiet—and every time I glance at my laptop, heat crawls up the back of my neck and settles in my cheeks.

The cursor blinks on the last paragraph I have typed for my story: “You’re mine,” he growled into her mouth.

“Say it, sweetheart.” He slammed into her from behind, relentless and rough, while his hand worked her clit with practiced, devastating precision.

Her cries echoed off the walls as his other hand slid up her body, fingers tugging her nipples through the thin lace of her bra.

He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t patient. He was desperate and dirty, hips pounding with the kind of hunger that said he’d die if he didn’t come inside her.

Her body arched, wild and aching, as he kept her right at the edge before shoving her over with a final, brutal thrust.

And all I can think is: Maddox .

Maddox, with those massive, tattooed arms and cocky smile. Maddox, who stands too close and looks at me like he knows exactly how I’d sound moaning his name. Maddox, who read this —my most unfiltered, intimate writing—and didn’t even blink.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t make a single dumb comment.

He just looked… affected. Like my words got to him. Like he felt something.

God, I wasn’t imagining it. Was I?

I mean, I did kinda create this character thinking of him. But he can never know that.

Because now? Now I can’t stop picturing him doing all the things I wrote about.

Slamming me against the wall. Rubbing my clit while he pounds into me with those fireproof hands.

Watching my body fall apart under his. I clench my thighs shut as the pressure builds, my body betraying me with every filthy pulse of heat.

What am I even thinking?

It would never happen. I’m still the geek girl and he’s still the hot jock. In real life people like Maddox and I don’t end up together. In my books they do, but not in reality.

And even if he’s changed, even if he’s kind now and says the sweetest things, Maddox Cole is a walking wet dream I was never meant to touch.

But damn if he didn’t just crawl under my skin and make himself at home.

Just as my fingers hover over the keys again—because apparently, I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation and I’m actually about to write more—I hear it.

A throat clears at the front desk.

I jolt so hard, I nearly knock my laptop off the table.

“Hi, uh… sorry to bother you,” a voice calls out—older, polite, hopeful. “I know it’s almost closing time. I just need help finding a book for my grandson.”

I inhale through my nose. Count to three. It is closing time, actually. The lights are already dimmed in the back. I should be off the clock and, more importantly, not in the middle of having an almost-orgasmic spiral over a man who already broke my heart.

I close the laptop—firmly this time—and school my features into my best “friendly librarian even though I’d rather scream into a pillow” expression.

“Sure,” I say, plastering on a smile as I limp my way to the desk, one crutch clicking against the tile. “Let’s see what we can find.”

But as I help the man search for some vintage fantasy series his grandson heard about ‘on TikTok or something,’ my eyes keep flicking to the door.

We find the first few books in the series, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the front door finally clicks shut and I flip the sign to “Closed”. I walk back to the desk, ready to pack my things and already dreading the ordeal of locking up behind me while balanced on my crutches.

Just as my last few items are put away, the front door opens again.

“Sorry, we already closed.” I grumble; I’m not about to wear my “Helpful Librarian” mask after hours. But it isn’t another student with a last minute assignment, it’s Maddox.

Still wearing his station shirt, sweat and damp and clinging to his chest. Soot streaks one sharp cheekbone, his hair slightly messed from the call he must’ve been on.

He looks like heat and trouble and everything I’m trying not to want.

My stomach does a stupid little somersault.

My body keeps betraying me when he’s around.

He steps inside like he belongs here, like this dusty little library and my quiet little world somehow deserve him in it.

A brown paper bag swings from his hand, and he drops it onto the counter between us with an easy smile.

“Always come bearing gifts, your mom taught you well.”

He chuckles. That deep throaty chuckle that sends my hormones in over drive.

“Brought your favorite,” he says, a little breathless. “Figured you’d need something sweet after a long day.”

I glance at the bag, still not sure I trust the gesture. “How do you know what’s my favorite? You barely know me. What is it?” I ask, eyeing the bag suspiciously.

He shrugs, but there’s something in the way he leans forward slightly, elbows on the desk like he’s settling in for something more.

“I know enough. I saw your box of tea under the front desk. And I may or may not have heard you mutter something about cinnamon oat cookies the other day, when that old lady returned that recipe book.”

My face warms. “That was not a mutter. That was a private craving whispered into the void.”

He grins. “Well, I guess the void delivered.”

I narrow my eyes at him, unsure of how to navigate this version of Maddox Cole—the one who brings cookies and soft smiles instead of jabs and insults. “Why are you really here?”

He pretends to be offended. “What, a guy can’t drop by with some tea and cookies for his favorite librarian? Plus I did say I would be back.”

I lift a brow. “Favorite? Bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Not even a little.”

His eyes drop to the counter, then back to mine. There’s a moment of hesitation, like he’s weighing something heavier than cookies.

“I’ve been thinking all day about that thing you wrote,” he says finally, quiet now. “The story.”

My throat tightens. Maybe the teasing is still coming.

He leans in, close enough for me to catch a faint whiff of smoke and pine soap. “Do they end up together?” he asks.

I freeze. “Who ends up together?”

“Those characters in your story?” His voice drops, soft but edged with something rougher. “Do they make it? Or does it end with heartbreak?”

I haven’t figured out the ending yet,” I say, barely above a whisper. “It’s a romance. So no heartbreak. But they still have a lot to work through. Even though… they, um. Do it.”

My cheeks burn. Maddox’s brow arches like he knows exactly what scene I’m talking about.

“Can I see the rest?” he asks, voice thick. Low. Like gravel dragged over velvet.

I should say no. I want to say no. But somehow, I nod instead.

He moves around the counter and sits beside me, close enough that I feel the heat coming off his skin in waves. I open the document, heart pounding, and scroll down to where I left off.

“Read it to me.” I’m about to shake my head but somehow I can’t.

And then—I start reading.

My voice shakes at first. But his gaze never leaves me. When I hit the part where the firefighter slams into her from behind, a soft curse escapes his lips.

“You’re mine,” I read aloud, trying to keep my voice steady. “Say it, sweetheart.”

He exhales sharply through his nose.

I keep going. “He slams into her—hard, rough—while his hand works her clit with practiced, devastating precision…”

I don’t finish the sentence.

Because Maddox takes my laptop, shuts it slowly, and sets it down like it’s the most fragile thing in the world.

Then he leans in.

“Is that what you want, Maya?” he murmurs, voice thick and dangerous. “Me. Taking you like that?”

I swallow hard. I can’t answer. I don’t answer. Because everything inside me is screaming yes. But I know my face will betray me if I say no. It has its own subtitles at this stage.

His hand comes up, tilting my chin. “Because I can give you that. I can give you everything. ”

“I—I wrote that scene about you, Maddox.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I want to drag them back. But it’s too late.

He stiffens like I’ve just grabbed him by the throat.

Then? He groans. Like a man pushed past his breaking point.

“Oh, baby,” he rasps, voice ruined. “You don’t know what you just did.”

Before I can blink, he’s gripping my waist— gently , so goddamn carefully—and pulling me forward. I squeak, grabbing onto his shoulders as he sits in the big library chair and pulls me right onto his lap, straddling him.

I shouldn’t let this happen. Not here. Not with him. But being so close to Maddox and feeling his huge erection. I just can’t think straight anymore. And the library is closed.

His huge hands stay at my waist, warm and possessive, while his eyes blaze over me like he’s memorizing every inch.

He leans in, and his lips brush mine— softly at first. A whisper. A test. But when I don’t pull back, when I kiss him like I’ve been aching to since the moment he walked into the library again, something snaps between us.

His tongue slides against mine, slow and filthy, like he’s trying to taste the words I’d written on that page.

One hand slides up my spine, the other down to cup my ass, squeezing like he can’t help himself.

My hips shift instinctively, rocking against the hard line of him beneath me, and his groan rumbles low in his chest. I reach up, to take my glasses off so they don’t get in the way.

He hesitates for a second before shaking his head. “No. Leave them on.” His lips find my jaw, then my throat. “You look like a wet dream in glasses, sweetheart.”